


Support (And Other Ways to Make Friends)

by RisuAlto



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [7]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Kidnapping, Attempted Murder, Battlefield, Blood and Injury, Comrades in Arms, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Friendship, Gen, I REGRET NOTHING, Politics, Team Bonding, This was supposed to be a single story about Claude defending someone, Verbal Abuse, actually it's 7+1 but close enough, and then it turned into this, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22065886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RisuAlto/pseuds/RisuAlto
Summary: Claude knew, when he entered the officer's academy, that he'd be at a social disadvantage compared to the Imperial Princess and the Prince.  After all, he'd only been the Alliance's official heir for a year, and had no history to speak of with his fellow students.  Here he was, again, starting from square one to fit in and make friends.  Good thing they were going to a school for combat training.  There are few better ways, after all, to establish trust than by saving someone's life.Or, 7 times Claude von Riegan defends his friends and 1 time they return the favor.
Relationships: Claude von Riegan & Ignatz Victor, Golden Deer Students & Claude von Riegan, Hilda Valentine Goneril & Claude von Riegan, Leonie Pinelli & Claude von Riegan, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester & Claude von Riegan, Lysithea von Ordelia & Claude von Riegan, Marianne von Edmund & Claude von Riegan, Raphael Kirsten & Claude von Riegan
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1548286
Comments: 44
Kudos: 183
Collections: Quality Fics





	1. Leonie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shinyivyleaves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinyivyleaves/gifts).



> This started with the Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt, "Go Through Me." However, when I went to decide who I wanted Claude to be protecting, I realized I had too many possible, good scenarios, and ended up deciding to just write...all of them.
> 
> This work is also dedicated to [Lumeha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumeha) and [nyx_aeternum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyx_aeternum), who encouraged me to write this monster instead of limiting myself to a single other Deer.
> 
> I'm aiming for daily updates.

So long as Garreg Mach had stood, the marketplace outside of it had been pulsing with life. At least, thought Leonie, that was how it seemed. She imagined that it was probably different at night, but the clamor of footsteps and ringing of hammers and clinking of coins seemed as much a part of the marketplace courtyard as Jeralt’s influence was a part of her. Intrinsic and natural.

And that was probably why she didn’t notice the stomping up behind her until a meaty, vice-like grip clawed at her shoulder.

“Thief!” bellowed the man as he swung her around to face him. It was testament to liveliness of the place that only the people nearest to them seemed to take any notice. Some of them noticed, only to immediately scurry away or raise something in front of their face to pretend they’d seen nothing.

Leonie would have scowled at them if she wasn’t too busy dropping her jaw at the sight of the man. She knew him, after all—he was one of the shopkeepers who only came here occasionally, but Leonie often bought leather from him when she could afford it. He was large, sure, with thick arms and heavy jowls, but she had always seen him as sturdy and jolly. He had a messy head of brown hair that reminded Leonie somewhat of Jeralt if his own hair was longer, and the man’s blue eyes had always twinkled at her.

But instead of the jovial attitude Leonie had come to know from the man, he now made her feel small. With one hand on her shoulder and another on her wrist, not to mention the burning glare in his eyes… 

(Had it always been so _sharp?_ Had she somehow never noticed?)

“Wh-what’s going on?” she asked, tugging sharply on her arm. Something popped in her wrist, but the man’s grip didn’t give.

“You stole from me, that’s _what_ ,” he spat, pulling her closer. More people gathered around, now.

Leonie dug her heels in. “What are you talking about? No, I didn’t!” The idea that Leonie _would_ steal by itself landed in her chest almost as sharply as one of Felix’s training swords.

“Oh, yeah?” he asked, and one of his hands dropped to Leonie’s side. She barely had a moment to shake out her wrist when he nearly pulled her off-balance by tugging on the sheathed hunting knife at her belt. “Then where’d you get this?”

“I bought it from you!” Leonie said, hands going to her. It had only been a few days since she purchased the knife, after all. Being of good craftsmanship and coming with a well-made sheath made it expensive, but not insanely so, and Leonie intended to send it back to her village eventually. One of the things on her to-do list at the market today had been to give the man the first payment she owed on it—

The man sneered, lunging forward and into her face. “Yeah?” he hissed. “Then didja ever give me the gold for it?”

Leonie’s eyes widened. “We had a deal,” she said, trying to back away. The man’s hold would be easy enough to break if she could use her legs, but she didn’t want to _injure_ him. Especially not when she was being accused like this. “I told you I’d pay for it in parts!”

“Anyone who knows anything about me, missy, knows that I don’t do _parts,_ ” the man said. “It’s all or nothing, up front or _no deal_.”

From the crowd, which was no longer meager, Leonie could hear whispers. People corroborating his claims, wondering if a _student_ of the monastery had really done something like _that._

“I—” Leonie shook her head. She wasn’t crazy; they’d worked it out together, and he’d handed her the knife with a smile, and—

Oh, how could she have been so naïve?

“There a problem here?” asked a voice from the crowd. The voice was loud, but close enough behind Leonie that she probably should have heard them coming, except that the almost irreverently casual tone could belong to none other than her house leader. She always had trouble hearing his footsteps.

“Claude,” she said hesitantly, looking over her shoulder. How much had he heard?

The man scowled, tightening his grip on Leonie’s shoulder to the point that she winced. “Yeah,” he said. “Like I said, this little lady’s been taking my goods without paying. Didn’t you hear me?”

Claude moved forward until he was next to Leonie, and he reached over to grab the hand crushing Leonie’s shoulder. Claude’s hand was smaller, but Leonie watched his fingers shift for a second before pressing, and—

“Ow!” gasped the man, pulling back.

“What I heard,” Claude said calmly, like none of that happened, “was you accusing one of my classmates without any proof. So, she’s got something you made—” he quickly cut off the merchant’s protests “—but there’s nothing but your word saying she didn’t pay for it.”

In some kind of fit, the man dropped his hold on the knife, too, allowing Leonie to finally shift her weight back on her heels. She stumbled from the suddenness of it, though, watching as the man spluttered at Claude, who, for his part, took advantage of Leonie’s steps back to get himself between her and the merchant. One of his hands was on his hip, like it almost always seemed to be, but the other rested on his chin.

“Hmm. You know, I have an idea. You seem like a smart man,” Claude said.

The merchant huffed. “Well, yeah.”

There was just _something_ about the way Claude’s weight shifted (or maybe it was the way the merchant’s eyes suddenly flickered with doubt) telling Leonie that Claude had found his advantage. “If Leonie really _stole_ that knife,” he said slowly, “then surely there’s no record of her purchase in your books, right? If we could see those, I’m sure we could sort all this out without an issue.”

The marketplace seemed so quiet for a moment that Leonie could hear the gears turning in the man’s head.

Then, the chatter from more distant stalls rushed back in, along with the dust from busy footprints and the shifting of the crowd. Leonie watched as the man shakily started to smile, eyes crinkling up into crescents that almost made him look sheepish. But they were still too sharp.

“You know, on second thought,” he said, “maybe I’m remembering wrong. I’ll, uh, I’ll go check again,” he said, stepping away with his hands in the air.

One step turned into two, then three, then the man turned his back with a positively toxic glare towards Leonie. When he was finally gone and the gathered people started to disperse, mumbling as fervently as ever, Leonie let her shoulders fall.

“Thanks, Claude,” she said, almost smiling but not _quite_.

Claude turned to her. “No problem,” he said.

Leonie bit her lip. “But, uh…Not that I’m not grateful…! But why’d you do that? I-I mean, how did you know—”

With a shrug, like it was the simplest thing in the world for the next leader of the Alliance to have done all of that, Claude said, “I didn’t.”

“You _didn’t_!” Leonie echoed. “That guy was way bigger than you, Claude! And I could’ve been the one in the wrong for all you knew, apparently.”

“Well, were you?”

Leonie’s chest sparked. “No!”

“See? I bet on you, and I was right,” said Claude. The indignant blush began to fade from Leonie’s cheeks as he just smirked. “Now, Teach sent me on some errands, but there’s no way I can carry all this stuff by myself. If you really feel that bad about it, then give me a hand and we’ll call it even.”

“Okay,” Leonie said, sweeping an arm out towards the market and its chaos. “Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by that one line in her supports with Claude where Leonie says she's a bad judge of character.
> 
> She ends up keeping the knife, by the way. The merchant is too scared to actually go after her for the money, but she pays him back anyway, with increasingly scathing glares on the side.


	2. Ignatz

The Battle of the Eagle and Lion was chaos. Yes, it was a training exercise, and yes, it was a time-honored tradition of the monastery, and yes, he probably would love to paint scenes from it, to capture the desperate struggle of all of these different spirits trying so desperately to succeed and be recognized. To help spur their teammates (their countrymen) to victory. But from a _distance._

Not that he’d admit that aloud, of course.

When one was actually immersed in the battle, it wasn’t anything like the beautiful disarray of colors Ignatz could imagine. It was loud and muddy, and the scent of singed leather and hair mingled with sweat, metal, and wet earth. He could imagine little that was worse.

Their teacher had him towards a back corner of their formation as Byleth led the melee fighters around to Edelgard’s side of the field. Ignatz was glad for the quieter position, in a way—he was mostly just there to soften enemies so that the close fighters could take them out without fear of retribution (Raphael and Hilda, mostly, if he was being honest).

Someone nearby set off another fire spell, and the heat washed over Ignatz, clinging to his skin and causing his clothes to do the same as he broke out in a more fervent sweat. Ugh.

He fired a curved shot off in the direction of the mage. The first one missed, but on Byleth’s command, he shot again.

The archer barely had time to groan in pain, letting Ignatz acknowledge his victory, when his attention was drawn back to their professor. “Claude, fall back!” Byleth yelled, holding an arm out to the side to block their house leader from advancing to their side as Claude seemed to want to.

Claude caught himself in a single moment of hesitation before turning to follow the command. Ignatz narrowed his eyes at the display. Claude, too, was an archer, but he was better-trained and beefier than Ignatz, not to mention a tactician with wits that sometimes seemed to rival their teacher. So, Byleth usually kept him close. 

Ignatz observed the approaching enemies as they began to grow in number. And Claude hadn’t been injured as far as he could see. Why would Byleth order Claude back?

Soon enough, however, Ignatz’s attention was drawn back to the people before them. Byleth indicated a target for him to share with Raphael, and Ignatz loosed an arrow almost purely on muscle memory. His mind was still on their teacher’s strange actions.

“Hey, over here!” shouted Claude, who rushed past Ignatz and skidded to a stop just outside the high brush he had been using for cover.

A prickling sensation, like pins and needles in a numb limb, crawled over Ignatz like scores of insects. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as his pulse picked up, slamming against the walls of his throat until they closed in on his windpipe. He dropped to the ground in reflex, one arm covering his head, just as a burst of blue magic came crackling across the battlefield.

Something sizzled nearby. There was a grunt, followed by an uneven scrape of footsteps, then the whistling of two arrows before they found their target with two quick, dull sucking sounds _. Th-thk._

The Thunder spell landed nowhere near Ignatz. He definitely wasn’t the one to shoot back.

Opening his eyes and rising to one knee, Ignatz saw Claude with his bow raised, favoring one side slightly as smoke rose from his uniform. With both hands up to use his weapon, the injury was exposed, showing the cracked and reddening skin underneath. Because Claude had moved out into the open and made himself a more tempting target than Ignatz, still hiding in the brush.

The mage, despite having two arrows stuck in her body, was readying another spell. Ignatz grit his teeth and picked up his bow, letting loose an arrow of his own that landed squarely in the mage’s shoulder.

Hood falling back and tome knocked from her hand, the mage staggered to the side before collapsing. She was immediately surrounded by the warm pulse of Faith magic from the school’s healers, regaining consciousness in seconds and being pulled off the battlefield.

Ignatz barely noticed, too busy staring wide-eyed at Claude.

Yes, Byleth had ordered Claude back, but he still would have ended up at the other side of their formation from Ignatz. Ignatz hadn’t seen Byleth give another movement command, so it didn’t make sense that he’d suddenly end up over here.

Unless, of course, he somehow saw the mage out of the corner of his eye and sprinted to intercept them while Ignatz was too busy helping Raphael and puzzling over Byleth’s choices like a dumbstruck child. But that still didn’t make sense. Claude could have stayed in the brush to protect himself, let Ignatz take the hit, and then fired. So, why…?

“You okay?”

Ignatz blinked. There was a callused hand in front of him, and it was most definitely attached to Claude.

Gasping, Ignatz stuttered, “Sorry, I didn’t—Oh, I mean—to ignore you—No! I mean—” He brought his free hand up in front of his face, waving frantically as he failed spectacularly to speak, cheeks flooding red.

“Here.” Claude snatched his hand and tugged. It was enough to lift Ignatz mostly back to his feet with an ease that _probably_ should have been embarrassing. “Don’t let your guard down, Ignatz,” he hummed, clapping Ignatz on the shoulder and turning back to the rest of the action.

“I won’t!” Ignatz said firmly, before the odor of smoke finally registered again, and he remembered that Claude was injured. “Claude, wait…!” Claude glanced back to him, but Ignatz noticed he kept one eye on the battlefield. Ignatz pulled a vulnerary from his belt and broke the seal, handing it over. He couldn’t quite make eye contact as he did, though he did catch a questioning tilt to Claude’s head. “You got hurt because of me,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it,” said Claude, grabbing the vulnerary and drinking it quickly. He put the empty bottle with his own items in a movement so quick that Ignatz almost missed it. Flashing one final grin in Ignatz’s direction, Claude took off back towards the heart of the battle, torn, smoking robes and all.

At least it was just the _cloth_ burning now, Ignatz supposed. He wondered for a moment if Claude knew, somehow, just how much he hated lightning, and had gone the extra mile because of it, but…no. That’d be silly, even for someone with an imagination like Ignatz. Claude was just…Claude, after all.

 _But,_ he thought to himself as he took aim again, _what does that even mean?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was inspired by Ignatz's astrapophobia (fear of lightning), one of the few named phobias I remember off the top of my head.
> 
> And, yes, Claude _did_ know, but he'll never admit to it.


	3. Raphael

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as some of you may know, this chapter kicked my butt due to confusion about Claude's official title. Since this takes place a little less than a year after the fall of Garreg Mach, Claude is not yet the Duke (his grandfather is still in power). However, he is 18, which means he would have a formal title. I settled on "Baron" as a title of courtesy, though you may notice certain characters trying to asskiss by calling him "your grace," which is a Duke's address.
> 
> ...or maybe you don't care lol. Anyway, enjoy the chapter.

“State your name and business, please,” drawled a guard who probably couldn’t have looked more bored if Raphael paid her. Her hair was falling in her face, and her eyes were half closed, not even really focused on him as she yawned into one hand.

Raphael wondered if he should tell Claude some of his guards weren’t getting enough sleep. That was a matter for later, though. Preferably after he and Claude could get through their meeting and enjoy some dinner together. “Raphael Kirsten,” he announced happily. “I’m here to see Claude.”

Another yawn. “Von Riegan’s waiting for a visitor right now. You’ll have to wait till tomorrow. Next.” Not even bothering to use a title for Claude, the guard waved Raphael off, glancing wearily over his shoulder like she was making sure no one else was there.

“Yep, that’s me,” Raphael said, undeterred. Even if the guard had made a mistake, she was clearly tired, and that was no reason to be less pleasant.

Apparently, this was enough at least to wake the woman up a little bit. “Hang on,” she said, ducking to pull something out of her bag. Raphael wasn’t sure what it was, but he did notice that when the woman wasn’t half-asleep, the lines on her face actually made her look kind of pleasant—like a mom instead of like a grouchy witch.

Before she could actually pull anything out or do whatever it was she was doing, Raphael heard another voice from nearby. This one was nasally and sharp, and it said, “Beatrice, what in the name of Seiros is the hold up with _this_ one?” And the woman suddenly looked exhausted again. Raphael understood—that wasn’t a pleasant voice to listen to, and if this guy was the guard’s boss, then really, he just felt bad for her.

“She’s checkin’ to make sure I’m really the one meetin’ with Claude today,” Raphael said, facing the newcomer with a smile. What he saw was a wiry, middle-aged man wearing clothes that made him look like a page or something. He was rich, but not like Hilda or Claude or Lorenz. He was, however, wearing a uniform with the Gloucester coat of arms on it.

His scowl only deepened when Raphael spoke, which caused Raphael’s smile to falter. “Oh,” said the man, scrunching his nose. “You must be the Kirsten boy, then.”

“He is on the guest list,” the guard said, holding up a memo of some kind. It was only out of the guard’s bag for a second, long enough for Raphael to spot his name and the Alliance seal, before she was putting it back.

“Indeed,” hummed the Gloucester man, nose still scrunched. Raphael wondered if it got sore doing that. “Unfortunately, there’s actually no need for you to bother the young master today. I’ve already been informed of what you need to know.”

Raphael pursed his lips. “Are you sure? Because I’m pretty sure Claude said he wanted to have dinner, and I don’t think that works if you use a messenger,” he said.

“Quite sure. Now, I assume this is about your paperwork regarding your status as a Knight of the Alliance, yes?” the man said.

And it was at this point that Raphael really _felt_ the way he was being looked at. Though the man was a good foot and a half smaller than Raphael, his eyes were narrowed and focused to a spear-like point that gave Raphael the impression he was being looked down at. It was a look he was familiar with. Hilda used to look at him that way before they became friends. Hubert and Ferdinand always did.

The look read, _You’re a poor fool, and I pity you, but you’re barely worth that much._

Raphael wasn’t sure how many more people were going to look at him that way before he started to believe it, no matter how hard he tried not to. Because, yeah, he wasn’t book smart and he wasn’t rich, and he _knew_ that. But it seemed like, since leaving the monastery, that was all anyone else knew about him, too.

With a sigh and a grin that was too bright to be anything but fake, Raphael put his hands on his hips and said, “That’s right!”

The Gloucester man rubbed his nose. “How quaint. Look,” he said, clapping his hands together, “I’m sure you were told back at your school, or what have you, that you had potential, Mr. Kirsten, but I’m afraid you’re not exactly what the Alliance is looking for in their best and brightest. So, please spare us further unpleasantness on the subject, and—”

“Beatrice, is something wrong?”

Beatrice rolled her eyes and mumbled, “Because every time someone throws a fit at the gates, it’s _Beatrice’s_ problem.” She rubbed her temple. Then, in a voice loud enough to carry across the courtyard behind the gate, answered, “I’m not sure, milord. Think there’s a mixup with your guest list.”

“Is that so?” Claude smiled, and Raphael wanted to smile back at his friend. He tried, but the way Claude looked was strangely…well, strange. He hadn’t seen Claude look like that since the Empire declared war and they met Edelgard on the battlefield. It wasn’t a friendly smile.

“There’s no mixup at _all_ , sir,” said the Gloucester man. “As I’ve explained, since this man’s services are not required and not worth troubling you over, he was just leaving.”

“What? No, I wasn’t,” Raphael said, crossing his arms.

Claude reached the gate and motioned for it to be opened. “Ah,” he said as he did so. “I think I see the problem.” He stepped under the gate as soon as it was lifted high enough to be possible, ducking under the spiked metal. 

Even though the people lifting the gates were probably good at their jobs, Raphael couldn’t help the little spike of adrenaline or the twitch in his hand, ready to move at a moment’s notice if the extremely sharp, heavy gate were to fall. Or something else terrible.

Claude continued, addressing the Gloucester man from beside Raphael, “Tell me, did you happen to see where my friend’s paperwork regarding the knighthood ended up?”

The man paled a little. “I—Yes, milord, I did see it—”

“And again, tell me, whose job is it to personally review those candidates?” Claude asked.

“The Leader of the Alliance has designated the job to his heir,” said the other man, “but, your grace, you have so many responsibilities that I thought it might help to have the…less worthy dealt with by someone else.”

Claude glanced at Raphael, still smiling in that strange way. Raphael thought he started to get it—why Claude had said in their letters that he never received the right papers from Raphael no matter how many times he sent copies or checked that they were addressed correctly, unhindered by doodles from Maya.

“That’s funny,” Claude said slowly. “Because I don’t recall asking for help with that. So, I’m _really_ not sure why _all_ of those papers didn’t end up on my desk. Now, I’m not saying it’s anyone’s fault—” (and Raphael almost laughed, but he did kind of feel bad for the maybe-page, since an angry Claude was actually pretty scary) “—but I will say that messing up, or losing, or _tampering_ with papers like that is a really good way to get locked out of the manor. Permanently.”

“Y-yes, my lord,” said the man, bowing his head. “I’ll see—I’ll see to it that this matter is resolved right away.”

“Thanks,” said Claude with a wink. “Now, Sir Kirsten, I think we have dinner plans. Hilda and Leonie dropped by, too.”

“’ _Sir_ Kirsten?’” Raphael said, blinked. “Are you jokin’ with me, Claude? Thought ya said there were rules and stuff about this.” But Claude was already walking away, waving over his shoulder for Raphael to follow him. He glanced between the flabbergasted guard, the shaking page, and his smug friend, then turned to the guard. “Uh, thank you. Beatrice, right? Sorry for the trouble!”

As he dashed through the courtyard, Claude continued, “There _are_ rules, but I’ve been talking to my grandfather since I came home from Garreg Mach, and as far as he’s concerned, you’ve been as good as a Knight since you helped fight at the monastery. The paperwork’s just a formality, really.”

“You mean it?” Raphael asked, even though he could see the sincerity now shining on Claude’s face, much more like the friend he used to know and not the Master Tactician, or whatever else he was called.

“Of course,” Claude said, and Raphael felt his own smile return, a little more real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favorites, ngl.


	4. Lysithea

Three and a half years had passed since Lysithea had been in the capital of the Alliance, and she could admit, she missed it. Her homeland was lovely, too, and the mountain winds and lush floodplains would always feel like home, but there was something wonderful and energizing about the constant ocean breeze and city bustle of Derdriu.

Being sent alone save for a minimal escort was also nothing short of an insult to the Duke. Lysithea was well-aware of this, and she was well-aware that Claude wouldn’t blame _her_ for the affront when it was her father’s idea of diplomacy. This didn’t mean she was looking forward to all the people she’d have to go through to _get_ to Claude who would be, inevitably, less understanding and far more condescending.

By some grace of the Goddess, it seemed Lysithea would be spared the insufferable attention as she spotted a figure in gold from down the street, one hand raised, casually approaching her party. (With no guard visible, Lysithea noted bitterly, because _of course_ no one would think that the Duke needed protecting while _she_ got stuck with eight bodyguards. Despite the fact that she could beat Claude in an open fight.)

“Lysithea,” Claude called when he was close enough. “It’s good to see you. How was the trip? Any scary monsters?” His voice dropped a little on the last question, clearly teasing, but daring her not to let her entourage know.

There was some shifting of metal and armor behind her as her guards were clearly not expecting the Duke himself to greet them, openly, in the streets. Lysithea hmphed. “Nothing that couldn’t be _handled_ ,” she said, smiling through clenched teeth, but secretly meaning every bit of joy at seeing her friend again.

“Young miss,” said one of the guards from over her shoulder, “are you certain this is a good idea?”

Lysithea wanted to roll her eyes but resisted. She turned her head towards the voice and said, firmly, “I’m quite sure that if Claude came to greet me, he was perfectly aware that we’d likely attract attention. I’m also sure that it’s none of your business whether I meet the Duke at his manor or in the city. So, if you’ll excuse us—”

Something pulled on one of Lysithea’s arms, then on the other, eventually twisting them both behind her back. She watched as Claude took an aborted step forward, eyes glinting, brow furrowed in confusion. “Sorry, miss,” said the voice in her ear, “but Duke or no Duke, you’re coming with us.”

“What’s going on here?” Claude asked, but Lysithea wasn’t paying much attention.

“What is the _meaning_ of this?” she demanded, glancing around the street, only to see that it was suddenly empty except for her, the guards, and Claude. She tugged against the grip on her arms, feeling her magic swirling under her skin. But it was useless unless Lysithea could move to channel it into a spell. “Explain yourself this instant!”

“Lysithea—” Claude started, reaching forward, but cut himself off when something sharp suddenly pressed against Lysithea’s neck. It was then that Lysithea noticed Claude’s bow was notably absent. He had a sword at his hip, but no ranged weapons.

So, these people—whoever they truly were, though Lysithea couldn’t rule out the fact that they might be Imperial enthusiasts from within her own house who disliked her—had intended to grab her before they reached the manor. But they also had the guts to do it in front of Claude given no other choice. _Reckless_ , she thought, _and desperate_. They—she and Claude—could probably use that.

“I wouldn’t come any closer if I were you,” said a different voice from behind Lysithea. “We really wanted her alive, but it’s not _strictly_ necessary.”

“Why?” asked Claude, lowering his hands in an apparent display of pacifism.

Lysithea added, “What do you want with me? Who are you?” As she craned her neck, she saw that only four of the guards were still standing, the others collapsed and unmoving on the ground. So not all of them had been disloyal, perhaps. Even that slight struggle, though, caused the blade at her neck to bite into the skin, and a bead of blood dripped down Lysithea’s throat. It tickled, and she was overcome with the desire to brush the liquid away but couldn’t.

Instead, she just ended up squirming uselessly in her captor’s grip.

“We just need to ask her a few questions. Now, then,” said one of the guards with faux grandeur, “we’ll be leaving. And if you value her life, your grace, you’ll stand there and watch, then turn around and go home.”

Lysithea’s breath picked up in her chest, becoming turbulent. “Questions” meant… There were only a few things that Lysithea would know that her father wouldn’t, and he was far feebler, an easier target if they wanted information out of him. So, that meant they wanted to know something about Garreg Mach (unlikely), something about her magic (Dark magic was uncommon, but not unheard of outside the Empire, and Lysithea couldn’t think of any group specifically and so desperately interested in it), or it had to do with her Crests. 

And that meant these people were aligned with _them._ The mages from her childhood. More than _anything_ else, Lysithea didn’t want to go through that ever again. They’d taken her family _and_ her future—wasn’t that _enough?!_

A wave of cool air through the street quickly dried the tears that were forming in Lysithea’s eyes, and she looked up, frantically searching for the source, uncaring of how the knife scraped her neck. Something large, armored, and dark was falling on top of them, and Lysithea gasped, reflexively trying to fling herself out of the way.

Surprisingly, it worked, as the people holding her were just as startled and determined to move aside. Lysithea still hit the ground hard, cobblestones scraping up her arm and jabbing into her side, sending a weird mix of cold (the ground) and hot (the pain) through her body. 

She looked up just in time to see Claude physically _leap_ over her, charging towards the dark shape. A wyvern, Lysithea realized. A moon-white, armored wyvern with scales gleaming like pearls had its claws anchored in the street, tail lashing out behind it and snout pinning one of the “guards” to the ground. With his sword now drawn, Claude moved in towards the pinned enemy and slashed cleanly through his neck, mounting the wyvern with such expertise that the whole thing seemed like one fluid motion.

Lysithea curled her hands into fists and pushed off the ground. Her body ached viciously, but she held her breath like it would dam up the pain and ran a few steps back from the fight. “Get off the ground, Claude!” she called, beginning to ready a spell.

As she did, Claude slammed the flat of his blade into the head of an enemy. He caught her eye, nodded once, and murmured something to his wyvern that Lysithea didn’t hear. The beast took to the air, hovering even with the tops of the nearby buildings. Lysithea focused back on the two people still standing.

Incanting softly and throwing a hand out towards them, she summoned the power for a Dark Spikes Τ. In the moment the spell left her palm, it felt like all of her anger, the fear and frustration that had knotted itself into Lysithea’s stomach, was loosed all at once. Power even beyond her normal might erupted in her veins and flooded into the spell, which promptly tore one of the men to shreds. 

The other, however, had managed to get mostly out of the way in time, and was now rushing up to Lysithea, shortsword in hand. She had a distinct feeling that dodging would be impossible with the wounds she’d already sustained, and Lysithea also knew she had no armor and weak constitution. No matter what, she _had_ to avoid the hit. Or at least make sure it didn’t slice anything vital.

The beating of wings thundering closer was the only warning Lysithea got before Claude landed nearly on top of her, his wyvern’s flank inches from her nose, bodily shielding Lysithea with himself and his mount. The enemy had no time to stop or change course, and he ended up slamming into the creature. From the shriek the wyvern gave, Lysithea could only guess that his sword had pierced through its armor.

“Claude!” she gasped, watching as he somehow maintained control of the wyvern for long enough to thrust his sword through the man’s chest. The “guard” fell with a wet gasp, crumpling to the ground. 

Lysithea ran forward, maybe carelessly, until she could see the wound on the wyvern’s chest. Claude, at least, looked unharmed, and was focused on holding the creature still while Lysithea shaped a Faith spell over its injury. “That was so _reckless_ ,” she scolded him as the magic took hold. “How’d you even call a wyvern here, anyway?!”

“Pure, dumb luck,” Claude said, running a comforting hand along the wyvern’s neck, green eyes alight with pride. “I figured we might have more fun seeing the city from the sky, so I brought her with me as a surprise.”

Lysithea paused. “Are you telling me that _you,_ Claude von Riegan, didn’t have a plan?” she asked, jaw dropping.

Claude waved a hand and scoffed. “Lysithea, who do you take me for? I’m wounded. If they’d tried to walk out of here with you, I’d have locked down the city. Whoever those guys were, they should know better than to go after my friends on my soil,” he said, voice suddenly compressing into something so serious that Lysithea wondered if they had somehow ended up at a war table without her notice. 

When he spoke again, however, he returned to the normal, insufferably carefree Claude she remembered. “Anyway, it looks like the city watch didn’t actually notice this mess.” Claude held out a hand. “Want to come find ‘em with me?”

With a sigh and an eyeroll that were more for show than anything else, Lysithea grabbed Claude’s arm and pulled herself into the saddle behind him. A familiar thought crossed her mind as he helped her settle in, waiting to take off until Lysithea had healed herself, too. She wondered if _this_ is what it would have felt like to grow up with a big brother. 

Not that she’d ever tell Claude, but it was nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can bet your ass Claude spent the next several months looking into this. But Lysithea didn't make it back to the capital thanks to her dad solidifying his Imperial ties, so they never talked about it again until Lysithea brings it up with Byleth in Ch.18.


	5. Marianne

Marianne had been so sure when she left Edmund that she was ready for this. Her father’s advice and tutoring had helped her tremendously, and she knew that the information she had regarding the movements of the pro-Imperial faction in the Alliance was incredibly valuable. And that wasn’t even mentioning the fact that she was going to talk to Claude, of all people.

…she supposed it would be more proper to call him by his title. But that didn’t change the fact that the current Duke von Riegan had been one of the warmer personalities she recalled from the monastery. He didn’t, of course, entirely understand Marianne’s reality, or why they were so different. But he didn’t get angry at her for being herself, at least. And if he’d dealt with that part of her personality, then Marianne was positive that he would listen to her when she came in an official capacity, as the Heiress Margravine Edmund.

That was, of course, what Marianne had felt upon her departure after a warm, encouraging speech from her father. The days of travel between Edmund and Riegan had given her more than enough time to second-guess herself.

Staring at the doors to the Duke’s audience room, Marianne felt her breath grow thin and her hands begin to tremble. She twisted her fingers into her skirt and squeezed the fabric, feeling the pressure against her skin and focusing on that instead of the voice in her head that hissed, _monster, you’re going to hurt him, he’s in danger and it’s your fault, this whole manor will_ burn _and the blood will be on your hands._

No matter what, though, Marianne couldn’t let her father down. That would be letting the Alliance down, and that would be letting the Empire win, and that was a guaranteed way for people to get hurt. And her father had refused to send another messenger. So, she had to do this.

With a soft, affirming hum to herself, Marianne straightened her shoulders and pushed the doors open.

“—ling you, your grace, you _cannot_ allow something like that into the manor so close to the full m—”

“Ah, Marianne,” said Claude, succinctly cutting off the person speaking. He stood as he spoke and placed a hand gently on the table beside him. 

The other speaker was a firm-looking woman with sharp cheeks and sharper amber eyes, wearing something that looked like layers of artfully torn fabrics in various shades of grey and dull green. The cloak she wore was rather fine, though, an indication of wealth. Her belt almost chimed as she turned, between the metal beads, holy symbols, and strange wooden knick-knacks hanging from it.

Most notably, however, the woman’s face went slack, eyes growing so wide that one could almost see the red skin around her eyeballs.

Marianne stopped short. A puff of air escaped her before she pressed her lips together, closing her eyes and settling her hands at her sides. This reaction was probably inevitable, right?

“You!” said the woman, and Marianne imagined the finger now pointing at her. “You can’t be here! Get out, now! Go!”

“Sorry,” breathed Marianne, ducking her head. “I—I can come back later…”

“It’d be best if you don’t come back at all!” the woman cried, closer, now, and Marianne flinched. “But visiting when the moon’s near full like this? You’ll bring disaster on us all. Curses feed on its sickly light, and you’re no exception!”

“Marianne…!” said Claude’s voice, and Marianne heard his footsteps rushing across the carpet towards her. She knew he wouldn’t _hurt_ her, but she also knew it was probably smart for him to have her leave, even if she didn’t understand what the moon had to do with any of it.

Marianne was about to take a step backwards when something knocked into her from the side. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but it did throw her off balance. She stumbled, one hand flying up to touch the arm that had been hit.

Several things at once began to go wrong. There was the distinct sound of fabric tearing. Marianne felt her skirt catch under one of her heels, then immediately go slack at the noise. The woman cried out, “No, your grace, please!” And Marianne’s hand landed where she meant for it to go, but she couldn’t feel her own touch.

Opening her eyes slowly, Marianne saw that, yes, her skirts now had a jagged hole about halfway up her leg on one side from where her boot had torn through the fabric. She saw the woman on her knees, one shaking hand outstretched towards Marianne while the other was tangled in her greying hair, shaking it loose from its previously meticulous bun.

She _felt_ , more than she saw, Claude with an arm around her, keeping her upright where she had stumbled. And when she really looked around, Marianne understood why. A part of her wanted to laugh. She’d been so taken aback by the other woman in the room that she’d never moved past the threshold of the door, and it had nearly slammed into her as it closed under its own weight.

Instead, Claude had pushed (pulled? He was on the other side of her from the door, after all, but that probably didn’t actually matter) …

Claude had _moved_ her out of the way.

The door thundered shut behind them. Marianne jumped a little, bumping into Claude’s chest as she did.

“You okay?” he asked, stepping away and front of her. With only her friend and not the strange woman in her line of sight, Marianne found her breath coming more easily.

“I’m s—sorry, your grace,” she said, shaking her head. “You didn’t…really didn’t have to do that.”

Claude chuckled. “It’s just a door, Marianne,” he said. “Though…man, it was heavy. Heavier than it needs to be, anyways. I’m sure in all my free time, I’ll manage to do something about that.”

“Please, your grace!” said the strange woman. Marianne’s legs locked up hearing her voice again. “Please, send the Beast away! It grows stronger with the tides of mana, so there’s no telling what will happen to you.”

Sighing, Claude turned around to face the woman. “Your concerns are noted, my friend,” he said, “but magic tides or not, the war effort relies on my meeting with the Margravine. Unfortunately, I’m not willing to risk the safety of my people on some old superstitions. So, if you’ll excuse us…” Claude gestured to the doors, stepping aside so that the woman would have a clear path out.

Or, would have, if not for Marianne still hovering in the way. She quickly scurried to the other side of the doorway. A part of her wanted to keep looking at Claude, wondering what he was doing letting her stay when this woman was _probably_ right. (And, now that she thought about it, she was sure that in all the books about her curse that she’d read, at least a few mentioned the phenomenon of powerful magics waxing and waning with the moon.) But she resolutely kept her eyes on the ground, not wanting to get any more involved and cause more problems.

To her surprise, the woman gathered herself, only saying, “Take great care, your grace,” before sweeping out of the room. The chimes and clicks of her belt fled after her, echoing hollowly before being swallowed up by the door’s thud in her wake.

“Sorry about that,” Claude said, rubbing the back of his neck. And…well. It seemed that he really hadn’t changed that much since they’d last seen each other at school.

Marianne tried for a smile, but it wouldn’t come under the weight of everything that had just happened. She did bring herself to look up and meet Claude’s eyes, though. “No, no…” she said quickly. “It’s my fault, really. I’m just sorry for the trouble.”

Claude shrugged, then motioned to the other chairs in the room. “Well, hey, we have bigger things to talk about,” he said. “If we want to avoid more _trouble_ with the Empire, that is.”

“R-right,” Marianne said, smoothing her hands over her skirt. It was still torn, and her heart was still beating way too fast. But Claude was right—there were more important things to be done. And she was the only one who could do them. It was strangely easy, now, to remember that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Marianne actually the Margravine of Edmund yet? No. Is Claude pulling her rank on the superstitious asshole for dramatic effect? Yes.


	6. Lorenz

Lorenz hadn’t attended a meeting of the Alliance nobles in five years. As he walked into the meeting hall, he had the distinct feeling of tracing an old path of footsteps, but no matter what, he couldn’t quite follow it as he used to. Each new imprint was just _slightly_ wrong, too far forward or too far to the side. It wasn’t threatening, exactly, but it was unnerving. 

Not that Lorenz would ever let such a thing show. He kept his chin high and his posture impeccable. His father may have been the driving force behind the Alliance’s Imperial faction, and Lorenz knew that their house hadn’t ever really been given a choice in their allegiance, but he was here, today, as aide to Claude von Riegan. As an advisor to the Duke. Not as the heir to Count Gloucester.

If Lorenz had found some way to travel back even five years and tell himself that this is where he would be, he knew that his younger self would have scoffed. Possibly told him he was wasting his life or, worse, betraying the people of the Alliance by doing so. Now, he knew better.

Claude was strange and seemed, at first, to be made of too many naïve impulses. But despite his quirks and the naivete that Lorenz still sometimes saw in his dreams, Claude was also whip-smart and (more importantly) noble enough, both literally and otherwise, to lead the Alliance in what had once seemed an impossible war against Edelgard. Anyone who failed to acknowledge that, knowing what Lorenz now knew of the man, was a fool.

He entered the meeting hall only to see that it was already half-filled. Various lords were either conversing at the long table or hovering in clusters like artfully placed vases around the room. For a moment, cued by the sound of the doors opening, all eyes were on Lorenz. But the moment passed, and most returned to their previous business.

Most. Lorenz caught a few sly, cold stares lingering on him. His father’s attention followed him, too.

Rather than acknowledge most of them, Lorenz nodded to his father and then moved over to sit between him and Claude near the head of the table. Lord Holst sat at Claude’s other side. Hilda was notably absent, but Lorenz couldn’t say he expected any different.

The chair was cushioned, but stiff and uncomfortable.

As Claude was about to greet him, Lorenz heard a sharp clink of metal and other objects being set on the table. “Excuse me,” said a man dressed in Daphnel colors, “but I believe you’re in the wrong seat.”

Lorenz raised an eyebrow. He recognized the man as he looked up—one of the more major lords of Daphnel, probably related to Judith somehow, but not someone he knew well. Quickly, a sympathetic smile covered his face and he said, “I believe you’re mistaken. This is my place. Yours is…” he glanced across the table, recalling how it should be laid out according to his and Claude’s plan, “there.” He pointed a few chairs down to the left.

“Oh, cut the crap, boy!” (Oh, yes, definitely related to Judith.) “Gloucester has no right to sit at the Duke’s right hand, not after what your family pulled with the Empire, and certainly not after you gathered troops against Daphnel and Riegan,” he said, leaning against the table with his back to Claude, like a wall between the Alliance leader and House Gloucester.

Lorenz heard his father scoff behind him, going to say something, but then the man continued, “And _yet_ , I heard you were even too cowardly to assist your own father in battle. Political alignments aside, that’s pathetic. Loyalty must be dead in Gloucester.”

And the Count’s jaw audibly snapped shut behind him. Lorenz had known that was coming the moment the man’s accusations changed from being about Gloucester to being about Lorenz himself. The fact that Lorenz had, for all intents and purposes, betrayed his father by hiding Claude’s plan at Myrddin was _still_ a sore spot between them.

 _How dare you question my loyalty to the Alliance_ , he wanted to say. _You’d have been dead if I hadn’t kept those secrets. I’ve done more for our people in three months than you do in a year._

But the silence from behind Lorenz pressed against him, almost as surely as the stares from around the room, and all that he managed was a pitchy, “I did what I had to.”

Harsh whispers burst like steam from each cluster of people. Even Lord Holst seemed to scowl at the weak response. The words were like a mirror, showing only what these people _thought_ they already knew.

Lorenz sat up straighter, intent on standing his ground, when he heard Claude sigh theatrically. It was the kind of sigh that Claude used to use around him, and he’d only recently stopped when Lorenz had acknowledged his respect for him. “Really,” Claude said loudly from behind the man from Daphnel, “I’d thought we could officially start the meeting before getting into this, but if everyone’s so impatient, then listen up.”

He paused, and those who were still hovering around the room quickly rushed to their seats like the tide flowing in. Except the man who had started the confrontation. He still stood between Claude and Lorenz, arms crossed.

Lorenz wished he could rise and face the man standing, but another part of him argued that getting _out_ of this seat would be as good as giving in. So, he remained seated, _allowed_ the man to look down at him the way his father looked down on commoners.

“Let me clear up this confusion about Lorenz,” Claude said, once everyone else was seated. “I have the utmost faith that he is possibly the last person in this room to ever think of betraying the Alliance. Lorenz was the only one of you, seated here now, to openly question whether I was fit for my position when I was revealed as heir instead of blindly accepting it. According to him, I’ve proven myself. And I can say with confidence, he’s done the same.”

“But, your grace—” started the other man. “Your grace, the Count—”

“—isn’t responsible for my decisions here,” Lorenz said, finding his voice once again solid. “I’m not here as the Count’s son. I’m here as Claude’s aide. My father should be addressed for questions regarding House Gloucester’s status after the Empire was driven back from Myrddin. _I_ will handle inquiries regarding the status of those fighting with the Duke under the Crest of Flames.”

“Precisely.” Lorenz could hear Claude smile. “Lorenz’s choice not to alert his father to the battle at Myrddin is the only reason why the Empire isn’t breathing down our necks right now. So, if anyone else wants to question my decision to involve him, go ahead. I _welcome_ the challenging of ideas that don’t seem to serve our people. But you’d better have some good evidence to go with it.”

Only the fluttering of tapestries and the soft scuff of shoes against the floor was heard once Claude’s declaration stopped echoing. No one moved. It seemed like no one wanted to breathe out, though Lorenz had heard several people breathe _in_ as they considered Claude’s words.

The man between Lorenz and Claude was like stone, eyes hard and brow furrowed as he searched for a way to dispute the situation. But he was crumbling. Lorenz was not.

“Is that going to be a problem?” Lorenz asked, raising an eyebrow.

The man’s shoulders fell like a puppeteer had dropped all of his strings simultaneously. “No,” he said, clearing his throat and trying to retain his dignity (though the confident grace he’d had before seemed to have drained away). “I’ll just—” He reached down to gather his things from where he had spilled them out over Lorenz’s at the beginning of the conversation.

By the time he was gone, slinking back to _his_ seat at the table, Claude seemed to already have brushed aside about what had happened, leaning forward and holding himself up with a fist under one cheek. Deceptively cordial. “Now, then,” he said. His other hand gestured freely as he spoke, introducing the meeting’s other intended issues. Lorenz had memorized all of them two nights prior, and listened carefully to Claude’s phrasing, noticing that he seemed to have deviated from what they discussed before in a few places.

When Lorenz spoke up about it, his corrections concise and unpadded with pleasantries, yet also absent of any real derision, Claude’s eyes twinkled. It could have been a trick of the torchlight, but Lorenz felt in his gut that the glimmer was genuine. _Ah,_ he realized. _A chance to demonstrate my legitimacy_. Claude hadn’t truly forgotten or skipped over anything, but rather was taking the opportunity to let Lorenz solidify his role in the minds of the gathered lords, even if it made Claude himself look a bit airheaded in the process.

He resolved himself to chastise Claude for it later. Lorenz of House Gloucester hardly needed the Duke to make such impulsive, reckless gestures in the name of his pride, which he was perfectly capable of defending by himself.

But he was not here as Lorenz of House Gloucester. And as the Lorenz who was Claude’s friend and aide, he couldn’t help but appreciate what Claude had done. He opened the notebook before him, quill and quips ever at the ready, and relaxed into his chair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Byleth is here, but couldn't make this meeting because they were too distracted by cats. Probably. Also, Judith chewed that guy out when she found out about this whole thing.
> 
> Next update will likely be on 1/10 due to life Happening.


	7. Hilda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that made me add the Graphic Depictions of Violence tag due to...a lot of blood. And some battlefield first aid descriptions. It's also the first chapter to actually use the line, "Go through me," that inspired this whole story.

In as delicate and ladylike of a way as possible, Hilda was getting real tired of this shit.

The final battle was supposed to be Enbarr. Then it was supposed to be Edelgard. Now, it’s supposed to be this weird, creepy organization that may or may not have been responsible for the worst of Fódlan’s history. And, technically, it seemed like the last one was true; but here Hilda was, fighting almost singlehandedly against a giant, glowing, metal monster that Claude and Byleth had just left to her as they charged ahead to actually defeat the _people_ in charge of the aforementioned weird, creepy organization. 

Being fair to them, Lysithea had taken out the remaining shields on the metal thing before all the others withdrew, going to face an incoming wave of enemies (which might have another one of these monsters, now that she thought of it) _._ That didn’t change the fact that Hilda was tired and sweaty and cold in the stagnant, underground air, and she really wanted to just be done with it.

She leapt backwards with a gasp, landing low to try and duck under the attack of the creature—beast—thing— _whatever it was_. Catching herself with one hand, Hilda pushed herself back up, ready to retaliate.

Gritting her teeth, Hilda took Freikugel in both hands and called forth the power of her crest, letting it flow from her blood, through her heart, and into her fingertips. The ancient metal in her hands began to pulse with light and energy, as though the gem at its center was a heart whose beat matched Hilda’s own. As she charged forward, closing the distance between herself and the metal titan, the power in Hilda’s hands burned like the fires of Ailell, illuminating a twisted crevasse that someone else’s magic had left in its body.

Hilda swept up from the ground, slicing straight through the weakened run of metal and snapping it apart like the buttons on one of Raphael’s shirts. With a groan that raised gooseflesh on her skin, the giant machine stumbled backwards, parts of its shield and armor clattering to the ground with each step, before it finally collapsed. The lights within its body flickered out.

“Phew,” Hilda sighed to herself, leaning forward to rest her fists (still clutching her weapon) on her knees. But, as much as she wanted to slack off, they were so close to victory. She could spare a little more effort to help end this battle as soon as possible. The few wounds she’d gotten in that fight weren’t enough to stop her from taking off towards her friends.

Hilda did, however, reserve the right to be jealous of those who could fly. The distant beating of wyvern and pegasus wings was just _taunting_ her sore calves as she ran.

No sooner than she had rounded the corner out of the room with that machine, Hilda heard a voice call, “There! Titanus weakened her!” She turned her head and nearly stumbled against the wall in shock as she saw a cluster of those who slither in the dark waiting behind her in the hallway. “Tear her down!” the man in front roared. He raised a hand and pointed at her with such virulent rage that, for a second, Hilda’s mind leapt to the javelins of light at Fort Merceus.

Instead, the archers behind him raised their bows. Even as Hilda held up Freikugel and lowered her stance, she didn’t think she could dodge this. Maybe if she’d stayed in the room with the Titanus and let them come to her, she’d have had enough room, but in this narrow passage? She’d be lucky to avoid even one of the arrows. Dodging both would be a miracle.

Even with Rhea alive and Byleth leading them, Hilda wasn’t going to bank on _that._

Between one heartbeat and the next, an impulse seized Hilda, and she dropped to the ground with the reflexive speed of someone who mistakenly touched a hot pan. Her breath froze as she moved without thinking, leaving her momentarily lightheaded and all of her nerves on _fire_.

Wind whipped past her, tugging her hair over her shoulders, where it blew in her face and marred the view of what had happened. However, Hilda didn’t need to see clearly to recognize the blur of white and gold or hear the ringing cry of Claude’s wyvern as the creature landed in front of her. 

She gasped, getting back to her feet as the sound of four arrowheads striking metal echoed through the hallway. She couldn’t see much from her position behind the huge, white wyvern, but Hilda didn’t see the creature even flinch at the impacts. Whatever armor or shield Byleth had given Claude before the fight seemed to have completely removed the wyvern’s weakness to arrows. “Claude…!” she called, relief and shock warring for control of her voice.

He didn’t turn to face her, instead raising the hand without his bow into the air. That was when Hilda noticed—the walls didn’t reach the ceiling. The beating of wings she’d heard before wasn’t distant because they were far across the city. It was because Claude’s battalion had been _high_ overhead. _Of course_ , she thought. _Clever as always._ Their enemies didn’t seem to have noticed either.

“If you want her,” Claude said, voice tight, “you’ll have to go through me.” He closed his fist.

Arrows fell like rain on the clustered enemies, chipping into the metal flooring and raising a small cloud of glittering shards—almost like stardust—around their feet. The two archers that had nearly shot Hilda fell instantly, but the man in front, despite being pinned to the ground and heavily injured, still breathed. As he started a spell, Hilda ran up next to Claude, switching weapons as she moved.

Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t worth wasting her Relic. She sank her silver axe into his chest, dancing back from the corpse as blood spattered the area around him.

Hilda scowled when she noticed some of it on her tights. “ _Ugh_ ,” she said, shaking her weapon off. “Doesn’t he know what a _pain_ that is to get out? I’m definitely going to be too exhausted to deal with it myself after a battle like this.”

She barely resisted the urge to try and brush the worst of the gore off herself, knowing _that_ would only make her gloves a mess, too. And while Hilda had no problems commandeering some poor squire to do her laundry, she wasn’t _cruel._

It was only when she went to say so aloud that Hilda realized Claude hadn’t answered her. He’d passed up an opportunity to banter, which jarred Hilda’s disgusted frown into something genuinely worried. “Claude?” she asked, looking up.

Claude’s eyes were closed, brow knit together with pain as sweat dripped from his face and blood dripped from his torso. Two of the arrows, which Hilda thought had been blocked, were buried in Claude’s body—one in his right side and one just under his heart. His breathing was shallow and trembling, and Hilda felt her eyes go so wide so quickly that it made her head hurt.

“Claude!” she cried as he fell sideways from his mount. Thankfully, he fell towards Hilda, and she threw her axe to the ground to catch him, arching her body so she wouldn’t jar the arrows and make things worse. As soon as his weight was gone from her back, Claude’s wyvern turned to face them as well. A low, whining growl slipped through the creature’s throat as she nosed about her master’s head.

Claude groaned through clenched teeth as Hilda caught him, lowering him to the ground with shaking arms. If any of his battalion saw that, Hilda would later tell them it was because he was heavy, and she was just a frail girl.

In reality, she was afraid.

She reached for her belt, finding a mostly-empty concoction bottle and little else that would be useful. “Oh, please let this be enough,” she breathed, setting it next to Claude’s shoulder. Then, reaching out to grab Claude’s other side, she said, “Hey, this is going to suck, okay? But I’ve gotta get the arrows out.”

When Claude said nothing in response, Hilda’s heart skipped, and she wasted no more time turning Claude onto his side, braced against her knees. The motion was enough to make him hiss, and when Hilda looked down, she saw his eyes fluttering open, looking up at her. “Do it,” he said. His voice was little more than a wisp of breath.

Hilda nodded, looking away quickly as the weight of the trust in Claude’s eyes made it hard to breathe. One of the arrows—the one near the heart—had gone all the way through Claude’s body. Hilda snapped the head of it with one hand, doing her best to ignore his wet gasp as a result. The other arrow was worse. She had to push it through, first, and the cry Claude let out as she did so was enough that his wyvern began to growl at Hilda, only stopping its attempts to bite her when Claude muttered something in a language Hilda didn’t know, fingers twitching by his side.

“Almost there,” she said, and, without giving Claude enough of a chance to tense up thinking about it, yanked the two arrow shafts back out of his body.

Claude went limp in her grasp as she frantically poured the concoction over the wounds, praying (and _meaning_ it for the first time in a very long time) that he’d lost consciousness from the pain and wasn’t _actually_ dead. His breaths were too faint to feel.

“C’mon, Claude,” she said, laying him on his back as soon as the wounds there were closed. His wyvern settled on his other side, bumping her head gently against his. Still unable to see his breathing, Hilda grabbed Claude’s wrist and pulled both his glove and her now-ruined one off, searching for a pulse under his skin. “You made me a promise, you jerk,” she muttered. “About your family. You don’t get to die just to get out of that.”

A beam of golden-white light suddenly fell over them, cocooning Claude’s body and seeping into his wounds like water draining from a tub. It was Marianne’s Physic, Hilda recognized. As the light faded, Claude took a deep breath, and no flinch or groan accompanied it.

Hilda sighed in relief, dropping both Claude’s hand and her own head. It was then, however, that she realized that, along with her tights, her skirt, gloves, and sleeves were now _drenched_ in blood. She wrinkled her nose, feeling vaguely nauseous, echoed by a disgusted noise from deep within her throat. “I appreciate being saved, you know, but this _mess_ is why you should never put a lady on the front lines,” she added, mostly to herself, but also sort of hoping Claude could hear her. “Also, you almost died, so. Hmph.”

Claude cracked a smile even before opening his eyes, which Hilda was relieved to see were just as bright and sharp as ever. “If you really want, I’ll help you with it. Just this once, though,” he said, pushing himself up to his elbows and catching his wyvern’s snout with one arm as she affectionately whined into his neck. “I don’t want you starting to think that my near-death experiences mean you get help with your laundry.”

“What, really?” Hilda teased, doing her best to pout even though she wanted desperately to smile.

“Like I said, _just_ this once.” Claude smirked, starting to mount his wyvern again, but caught Hilda’s eye as she got back to her feet. “It’s worth it. Now, come on—Teach has to be getting close to their leader.”

Even though she’d screwed up and nearly gotten him killed, he still smiled and teased and pulled her along. Hilda sighed, grabbing her axe from the ground and charging after him through the hallways. The fear that he’d be disappointed in her had never really hit, she realized. Even after she knew he’d be okay. 

She supposed it was about time she stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop. When they caught up to their friends, Hilda rejoined the fray with a pleasant, vicious smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hilda was very, very frustrated to learn that this was not actually the final battle. 
> 
> So, this chapter was tough to write because I kept waffling on when I wanted it to take place. Originally, I thought Enbarr, but then I didn't think that was close enough to the end of the game, so I thought I'd put it in the final chapter. Then, I heard two lines of dialogue during the final month that changed my mind again: Hilda says to Byleth, "Dying to save someone else...seems to defeat the purpose," and Ignatz says to Claude, "You shouldn't have to ask us [if we'll fight], Claude. You know we're with you." And those both felt like things that would fit _after_ this chapter, so I changed it one more time.


	8. (+1) Claude

Claude hadn’t been expecting any kind of grand gesture when he arrived at Fódlan’s Throat. It had, after all, only been a few days more than the time it’d take for his correspondence to reach Garreg Mach and then for Byleth to return it. He had received his old teacher’s confirmation of his visit while en route to Fódlan’s Locket, exactly as anticipated. It had been an intentional decision not to give Byleth (or, really, Byleth’s _advisors_ and the other nobles) enough time to put together some kind of lavish, ass-kissing reception. 

Claude thought, and according to their response, Byleth agreed, that forcing Almyra’s initial diplomatic overtures to occur in an honest and straightforward situation was the best course of action. They’d figure out pretty quickly, that way, who was open to that sort of progressive change and who was determined to dig their heels in and cling to the nation’s isolationist past.

However, despite wishing for the element of surprise to reveal Fódlan’s true colors, Claude did not expect that the shocked parties would still be in control of the Locket’s heavy artillery.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” he muttered in his native tongue, pulling his wyvern into a sharp dive to avoid a ballista shot. “Has Fódlan really forgotten how to send a letter?” 

The rest of his entourage was farther back and mostly out of range, so long as no one on the fortress wall had a Meteor spell. They _were_ , however, within visual range and most definitely carrying a flag to indicate parley. Which apparently meant nothing to whoever was in charge. Claude sincerely hoped it wasn’t Holst, but as far as he knew, Holst had retired from active military following his injury at Nemesis’s hands.

Seeing there was little he could do except dodge and fume from the air (Claude was approaching unarmed, having passed Failnaught off to Nader temporarily), he circled his wyvern down to the ground. Dust swirled around her feet as she landed, the ground agitated by her claws and wings. Even as she stilled, some of the dust threatened to choke Claude. He raised a sleeve to cover his mouth, squinting up at the titanic wall before them.

Glints of metal caught his eye, but it was the flashes of blue and white light from above that truly worried Claude. Even as he started to pull his mount back, he knew that if those spellcasters were proficient enough, he might not be able to get out of the way in time.

Something, or someone, took off from the upper wall. Claude instantly recognized the sharp curves of a wyvern’s wings, but he couldn’t make out the rider from the ground. What he did recognize, as the beast suddenly folded its wings until it resembled a maroon, leathery arrow and _dove_ towards him, was the blur of white and purple clutched in its talons.

Lysithea von Ordelia reached out, inky magic oozing from her fingertips, and she detonated an explosion of Dark magic right on top of the teal bolts that were maybe a second away from striking Claude. In his next breath, the dark wyvern’s wings unfurled, slowing its descent. The beast released Lysithea as soon as she could drop safely, and she slipped under it quickly to take cover as the wyvern landed. The ground still shook as the rider planted herself and her mount in front of Claude and _his_.

On its back, Hilda raised a shield just as her wyvern ducked, exposing armor plating, to catch the _metal_ arrows that had followed the magic ones. “Déjà vu, huh?” she chirped as her hair was whipped about in the updraft like a tempest of cherry blossoms. Claude could imagine her dissatisfied pout at the mess it would become.

If that display wasn’t enough to incite the most abject of pity for whoever was currently in command of the fortress, the next people Claude looked up to see sealed it—a deep _boom_ echoed out from the Locket as the main gate rumbled open, revealing two horses with three riders. A smile pulled at Claude’s lips. Raphael rode alone, still clad in the same colors he wore back during their Academy days. Everything about him, from his armor to his smile, gleamed in the sunlight. The other horse bore Marianne and Ignatz, with the latter holding on tight as Marianne leaned forward to whisper to her mount. Whatever she said spurred the horse on instantly, and it overtook Raphael’s with what seemed like no effort at all.

Hopping down as Marianne drew her mount to a stop in front of Claude, Ignatz curled one hand around the sword at his hip. His movements weren’t quite as graceful as Claude remembered, though. He hoped Ignatz was merely out of practice because he’d been pursuing his _real_ passions instead of fighting. “Sorry we’re late,” he said over his shoulder, interrupting Claude’s thoughts.

“It took Byleth an extra couple of days to get us all together to meetcha,” Raphael bellowed as he closed in on them, also turning his horse around and placing himself at the very front of their formation. His shoulders were squared, a grinning, heavy wall between Fódlan’s most prestigious fortress and a single, unarmed man on a wyvern.

Marianne sighed, but her brown eyes shone. There was a familiar tiredness in her voice as she spoke. “We didn’t think things would be _this_ bad without us,” she said, yet it was woven with a mirth that disarmed Claude almost as efficiently as Judith could. Glittering Faith magic began to dance around her wrists. “Did they hit you?”

“Who do you think I _am?_ ” Lysithea asked, putting her hands on her hips and marching right up next to Ignatz (who was pulling out his bow, now, to replace the sword). “I obviously stopped them.” The eyeroll she offered Marianne was nothing short of fond.

“You’re _all_ here?” Claude asked, blinking. Somehow, despite the shock of being shot at, seeing all of these people—his old classmates and allies—standing here in front of him and facing down the walls of their own country… It was an outcome he didn’t think he ever could have foreseen. Hadn’t dared to hope for.

Well, most of his old class, anyway.

“Oh, Lorenz and Leonie are up there, too!” Raphael said, waving a gauntleted arm towards the top of the fortress. “Lorenz said to leave that general to him. And Leonie’s up there to spread the message to everyone else!”

Hilda scoffed. “She and I drew lots for that one, and I lost, so here I am, working up a sweat on the battlefield, _again._ I swear, if that general doesn’t chill out—”

“It’s alright now,” called a slow, distant voice. “You may all stand down.”

Claude looked up, past the barricade of his friends, to see a purple silhouette now gracefully leaning out through one of the Locket’s crenels. He would _swear_ that even from this distance, his sniper’s eyes could make out a tiny spot of scarlet over Lorenz’s chest. “This is some welcome,” he answered, hoping his voice would carry—even when raised, it was rarely the loudest in a room.

“You were on a big, fuck-off wyvern, coming up to the wall for the first time in, like, a decade!” Leonie yelled down. “They were surprised!” She was perched up on one of the turrets, looking every bit a qualified commander in her own right with the flags of Fódlan billowing behind her.

Another voice that Claude didn’t recognize began to seethe, ranting and spluttering about something regarding Almyran scum and _doesn’t our great leader know what danger they pose?!_ The general, Claude guessed, was summarily ignored.

Instead, the gates started to open wider, and both Leonie and Lorenz disappeared from the wall. The five who had assembled in front of Claude, a composite human shield just _daring_ the Fódlan troops to move on the Almyran entourage again, relaxed almost simultaneously. Ignatz audibly sighed with relief.

“Come on, then,” Hilda said, reaching down to help Lysithea onto her wyvern even as she made eye contact with Claude.

Lysithea took Hilda’s hand, but floated into the saddle under her own power anyway. “Glad that’s over with,” she said.

“Indeed,” hummed Marianne. “They didn’t manage to hurt anyone, did they?” Her gaze scanned across Claude’s people.

“Everyone _looks_ alright,” Ignatz said, apparently thinking along the same lines. He smiled sheepishly as he made eye contact with a few riders over Claude’s shoulder. “Thank the goddess.”

“I think we’re good,” Claude confirmed. As he focused, once again, on the fortress, he couldn’t help taking in the way that the greying stones broke up the mountainscape and blocked part of the sky. A gash across the world, like a strip of its life had never been painted in. Or had been covered up.

And yet, the doors of the fortress were ajar, color bleeding through the pathway that now opened before him.

It was this path that Claude traveled, dismounting to walk beside his wyvern. Though some present could have flown, and some could have galloped, not one person in the group, either Almyran or Fódlan-born, seemed eager to rush ahead.

“Well,” Raphael boomed as they passed under the gate’s archway, “here we are. Welcome back to Fódlan, dude—uh, I mean, Your Majesty.”

Claude’s mouth was open, already going to wave away the formality, but Leonie beat him to it. “Oh, please,” she said, approaching the group with her helmet tucked under one arm, the other hand resting on her hip. “Duke or King or whatever, he’s still just Claude.”

“Precisely,” Lorenz said, dramatically casting his arms out to either side. “After all, our esteemed Professor didn’t send us here to escort a King. We were sent to welcome our friend.” His eyes settled on Claude’s face, and even through the perpetually haughty tilt of his brow, Claude could see sincerity there, too. “Though, that was quite an entrance. I _do_ recall saying that life without you would be dull, but if this is to be a consistent state of affairs…”

Claude smirked, looking up at the fortress wall. The sun at his back sliced through the shadow cast by the Locket, leaving him and his friends, both old and new, in a pocket of light. The fortress wasn’t, by any means, ruined. Tearing such a wall down would be a task that spanned years, maybe decades, when it was still in such good condition. For now, however, it was cracked.

 _No_ , he realized, _not quite_. A crack implied that this was an accident, a natural consequence of weathering and inattention.

This was a tear, made by hands on both sides that were desperate enough, curious enough, _kind_ enough to reach through to the other side. It was a symbol of active effort by a small number of disparate people with the courage to call each other _friends._

A depth of emotion that Claude hadn’t felt since the reunion at Garreg Mach began to well up. He breathed, sharp and deep, and held onto that air like it alone could preserve the memory of standing here, surrounded by these people. People from both halves of his world, looking to him without suspicion, but with relief and hope.

Claude exhaled. Pretended it didn’t burn so sweetly on the way out. He looked to his friends. “Times are changing,” he said, lopsided smirk melting his into a genuine smile. “But for my friends? I keep my promises.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Claude's wyvern is named Ezgi. I waffled on this for a _long_ time, so it took me the entire length of time I was writing this fic to decide, but I just really love that name. It means "melody" and is one of the few Turkish phrases I know off the top of my head. That said, if anyone knows any good resources for learning more Turkish, let me know. I wish to learn more than just what I accidentally memorized from music.
> 
> Anyway, thank you to everyone who's supported me and commented so far. It's been a long time since I've tried to write a multichapter story, and I am eternally thankful to you all for helping me reach the end, especially shinyivyleaves (since this is kiiiiind of your fault). I hope you all have enjoyed.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Support (And Other Ways To Make Friends)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23480734) by [LumehaPodfics (Lumeha)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumeha/pseuds/LumehaPodfics)




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